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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186683">visions of sugar-plums</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritesometimes/pseuds/iwritesometimes'>iwritesometimes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Major Crimes (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:36:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritesometimes/pseuds/iwritesometimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi,” he says, eyes drifting irresistibly back to the lights and garland; there are more wreaths here and iridescent plastic snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Even the display skeleton propped in one corner is wearing a Santa hat and shades, and someone’s tied a little red bow to each rib.</p><p>“Hi,” Fernando replies, sounding tired. But he smiles back. “Sorry to drag you down here; I just needed to get a last couple of samples and send them off for testing. Then I’ll be ready to go.”</p><p>“Take your time,” Joe says. “This place looks...festive.”</p><p>“It’s Christmas,” Fernando replies, already turned back to his grisly work. Joe can’t argue that, though that wasn’t really the cogent point.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Fernando Morales/Joe Bowman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>visions of sugar-plums</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/gifts">Kennel_Boy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a very merry christmas to my darling <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy">Kennel_Boy</a>, for whom this <i>extremely</i> self-indulgent Secret Santa fic was written. if not for her i wouldn't even know who these losers are, and now /paul rudd voice/ look at us. huh?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Joe’s shocked almost speechless when he comes to the morgue late one Friday to pick up Fernando for dinner; Fernán had to work a little later than he did, finishing up paperwork in advance of what, apparently, is well-known among medical examiners as the “Christmas rush.” Joe has to admit it’s morbidly funny in the way doctor humor often is, though it comes down a little harder on the morbid side for him. The season hasn’t seemed to affect Fernán’s mood, much, in that he’s been only moderately more prickly than usual at the end of long days at the office, but he’s warned Joe to brace for January and not expect to see him much until after Valentine’s Day.</p><p>So it’s a surprise to say the least to disembark the elevator on the lower level of the county coroner’s building and immediately spot a Christmas wreath hanging on the door to the morgue, big red and gold bow adorning it and trailing halfway to the floor. Christmas decorations in LA have always felt a <i>little</i> surreal to Joe, anyway; no matter how long he lives here, he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite grow used to Santa costumes in sunny, 80-plus-degree weather or Christmas lights on palm trees. It all somehow adds to LA’s hyperreality and makes living here an even more disembodying experience than usual. But he has to admit, a palm tree decorated with icicle ornaments doesn’t hold a holiday candle to opening the swinging morgue door and seeing the entire autopsy room beyond decked in multicolored lights and silver tinsel garland. He’s so stunned he doesn’t register, for a moment, that Fernán is there until he says his name. Joe blinks at him, smiles; Fernando is bent over a mostly-disassembled body, headlamp affixed and scalpel in hand. Joe stays outside the room.</p><p>“Hi,” he says, eyes drifting irresistibly back to the lights and garland; there are more wreaths here and iridescent plastic snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Even the display skeleton propped in one corner is wearing a Santa hat and shades, and someone’s tied a little red bow to each rib.</p><p>“Hi,” Fernando replies, sounding tired. But he smiles back. “Sorry to drag you down here; I just needed to get a last couple of samples and send them off for testing. Then I’ll be ready to go.”</p><p>“Take your time,” Joe says. “This place looks...festive.”</p><p>“It’s Christmas,” Fernando replies, already turned back to his grisly work. Joe can’t argue that, though that wasn’t really the cogent point. He steps back into the hallway to give Fernando peace and quiet, eyeing the wreath on the door more closely: little frosted wax pears and grapes lie interspersed with miniature gold plastic bugles and fake holly. It looks like it belongs over a mantelpiece in an upstate New York mansion circa 1925. Joe privately thinks it’s hideous, and he also can’t square it with what he knows of Fernando’s decorating sense, so he must not be responsible for putting it here. Maybe the chief medical examiner is <i>really</i> into the holiday spirit.</p><p>Fernán emerges a few minutes later, scrubs swapped out for a comfortable-looking blazer over a t-shirt and jeans. His hair is getting long enough that, at the end of the day, it starts to fall over his forehead a little. Joe’s fingers itch to reach out and push it back, but he readjusts the strap of his backpack, instead, and says, “All finished?”</p><p>Brandishing a couple sample bags, Fernando pats his pockets to make sure he has his wallet, keys, and phone, and heads for the elevator. “Just have to drop these off with Monique on our way out.”</p><p>“So who did all the decorating down here?” Joe asks, punching the number in the elevator and then leaning over to press a kiss to Fernán’s temple as the elevator doors slide closed. “I didn’t expect to see the morgue in lights.”</p><p>Leaning a little into the contact, Fernando says easily, “Me and a couple of the techs I talked into helping. Next year I’m putting a whole-ass tree in there and there won’t be a thing Ringgold can do about it,” he says, sounding preemptively triumphant in the next volley in the ongoing cold war between himself and the chief deputy medical examiner.</p><p>Joe laughs incredulously, holding the elevator door open on the ground floor for Fernando to precede him. He drops his sample bags off at the front desk, trading genuine smiles and <i>goodnights</i> with the receptionist, who also greets Dr. Joe by name. He supposes he’s starting to become a bit of a fixture in the county coroner’s office, which is not something he would have anticipated even six months ago.</p><p>“I didn’t know you were so into Christmas. You don’t have any decorations up in your condo—or is this primarily about sticking it to the man?” Joe asks, grin spreading. Fernando’s answering grin is sly.</p><p>“It’s not <i>entirely</i> about sticking it to the man,” he demurs. “That’s just a fun bonus. I haven’t decorated my place yet because I always get a real tree and throw a little party to get it decorated.” He glances up sideways through his long lashes, a look guaranteed (and probably calculated) to get Joe’s heart racing. “You’re invited, by the way. I’ll probably do it next weekend, I just hadn’t mentioned it yet.”</p><p>“Will there be hot cocoa? I can’t guarantee my attendance without cocoa.”</p><p>Fernando gives him a withering look over the top of the car. “<i>Please.</i> As if I’d throw a tree-trimming party without it. Heavy on the bourbon, obviously.”</p><p>“Obviously,” Joe replies, smirking.</p><p>He sort of forgets the topic of Christmas and tree-decorating until he and Fernando spill into his apartment later after dinner out, decidedly too much wine between them and the boundaries of personal space already blurred into nonexistence. Fernando’s weaseling his hands up under Joe’s sweater and starting to pull his shirt loose from his slacks, on tiptoe and whispering giggly filth in his ear, as Joe struggles to pull it together enough to unlock the front door. The moment they stumble inside, Fernando’s tugging the sweater up insistently and trying to kiss Joe at the same time, which is as successful an endeavor as it sounds and ends with Joe laughing and tangled in his own clothes and Fernando giving up and starting to unbutton whatever buttons his hands fall on.</p><p>“Just going to leave me like this?” Joe asks, grinning from out of the folds of his sweater, his elbows hiked up around his ears.</p><p>“You’re a big boy—” Fernán slides his thigh between Joe’s and hitches up against him, dark eyes glittering, and Joe’s laughter melts into a gasp. “You can figure it out. I’m only just managing these buttons, <i>why</i> do you wear clothes with so many…”</p><p>Joe has finally managed to pull his sweater and shirt off in one go, his hair staticked up as he emerges to see Fernán frowning into his living room. Joe realizes belatedly they’re still standing in the entryway; it’s lucky the front door swings shut on its own or they probably wouldn’t have even managed to get it closed. It took Joe a while to finally be comfortable enough with Fernando to reach the point of getting naked with him, and it’s still easier with a little alcohol in his system, at least to get started, but after they slept together that first time, it was like a dam broke. He’s like a 16-year-old again. He can’t believe how hard it is to keep his hands off Fernando now; he hasn’t felt this way in years. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he even could feel this way anymore. And then Fernando Morales with his big eyes and smart mouth agreed to give him a shot (...several shots, really; the first several, they decided, didn’t count) and suddenly Joe is getting haphazardly stripped in his front hallway, shifting his weight restlessly against Fernando’s thigh pressed against his cock. But he’s the only one moving, he belatedly realizes, and then Fernán is moving <i>away</i>, and—</p><p>“You really haven’t put up <i>any</i> decorations?” Fernando says, as he wanders a little tipsily into the living room, and it’s so completely unrelated to their current activities that it takes Joe an embarrassing handful of seconds to even parse the question.</p><p>“I—what?” he says, shaking out his shirts and crossing his arms over his chest, self-conscious now Fernando’s hands aren’t on him. He frowns at his surroundings, now, too, confused. His living room looks the same as every other time Fernando’s been here: bookshelves taking up most of the available space, some art and pictures of his family on one wall, framed concert posters on the remaining one. “Wait, you mean...Christmas decorations?” </p><p>“Not so much as a sprig of plastic mistletoe!” Fernando complains, scandalized and scowling.</p><p>“Didn’t seem to give you any trouble kissing me a minute ago,” Joe says, sidling up behind him and resting his hands on Fernán’s hips, kissing his shoulder. It’s not like Fernando to get distracted in the middle of something he’s focused on. “Does it really bother you?”</p><p>Huffing, Fernán tips his head fractionally to the left; Joe smiles and takes it as the invitation it is, softly presses a kiss to his neck. He’s rewarded with a low hum. “It’s just <i>sad.</i> No greenery, not a single strand of lights...it’s depressing. Isn’t it depressing to you?”</p><p>Joe wraps his arms securely around Fernán’s trim waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Not really,” he says. “Decorating alone is depressing. My friends aren’t really the tree-trimming-party kind. And...it reminds me of home. Not in a bad way, but in a way that just highlights that I’m a thousand miles away. Prettying up the house at Christmas was something my mom always made a big deal about, when I was growing up. If I tried to do it myself, it’d be disappointing by comparison.”</p><p>Fernando doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Joe has this horrible sense that he’s about to be mocked, that he’s gone too far and opened up too much about something that’s only meaningful to him and he’s going to get the full Morales disdain turned on him for it, and probably he deserves it for dampening what had previously been a perfectly lovely adult-rated evening. Then Fernán turns in his arms and slides a hand into his hair to pull him down—down, he’s so small, it makes heat skip up Joe’s spine as his long-fingered hands nearly touch around that narrow waist—and kiss him, shockingly gentle and slow, nothing like before, and somehow deeper and hotter and <i>more.</i></p><p>“Dare you to be disappointed with <i>my</i> Christmas decorations, Dr. Bowman,” he murmurs, his dark lashes flickering, corner of his mouth curling up. “They’d make your mother eat her heart out.”</p><p>Joe huffs a laugh, holding Fernán a little closer. “If there is one thing I have never doubted for a second in this relationship, it is your consummate ability to outdo my mother at almost anything you set your mind to.”</p><p>“Please never say that again while I’m trying to seduce you,” Fernando says breezily, hooking his fingers behind Joe’s belt and starting to tug him backward toward the bedroom even as he unbuckles it with practiced ease. “In fact, let’s stop talking about your mother altogether, hm?”</p><p>“Best idea you’ve had all night.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Joe’s sort of glad he’s at Fernando’s house early, the day of the decorating party, so that he’s eased into the noisy, festive shindig it becomes; he thinks if he had come in midway, he’d have been scared off. But he has the honor of helping Fernando actually pick a tree, this year, and though the circumstances couldn’t be more different from Christmas on Puget Sound (they wear chino shorts and sunglasses as they peruse the Christmas tree lot next to their favorite taqueria), he can’t deny it gets him excited in an old, familiar way. The bristly softness of the trees, the sound of the saw exposing the stump and culling the lowest branches, the whir of the baler; he remembers being small enough to hide amongst the trees, his mother having to come and find him, the lights dazzling overhead and lighting up the little clouds of his breath. After he helps the salesman tie the tree to the roof of the car while Fernando supervises, Joe holds his sap-sticky hands up to his face to breathe in the smell, and he misses his family terribly.</p><p>But there just isn’t room for much nostalgia after that; Fernando has a strict itinerary, and Joe’s been co-opted to ensure it’s adhered to. He and Fernán get the tree set up in the space normally occupied by a table of knicknacks in front of the big picture window between the kitchen and living room. From the storage closet in the basement of the building, they bring up a stepladder and box after box of ornaments and decorations and enough lights to illuminate the Hollywood sign for a year, all of which must be painstakingly tested for functionality and dead bulbs. It’s all incredibly organized and incredibly chaotic at the same time, but while he sets Joe to hanging the wreath on the front door—a massive fake-snow-dusted affair studded with suspiciously familiar frosted wax fruit—Fernando starts a pan of milk bubbling on the stove. Soon he’s pressing a large mug of whiskey-scented cocoa into Joe’s hands and directing him to find some decent Christmas music on the TV, <i>not that 19th century depressing shit—if Mariah doesn’t play in the first ten minutes, we’re changing it.</i></p><p>By the time guests start arriving, Joe’s comfortably warm between the eyes from bourbon and a brief interlude spent tangled up on the couch with Fernando and a length of tinsel garland; he directs Fernando’s friends first to the kitchen for drinks and snacks, then to the staging area where ornaments, ribbon, and other sparkly items are arranged according to some arcane system of Fernán’s inscrutable design. Joe knows some of the guests, a mix of coworkers and friends, even a couple of familiar faces from the LAPD (the look of shock on Rusty Beck’s face at finding out his therapist is dating the department’s coroner-on-call pretty much makes it worth letting that particular cat out of the bag, even if Joe knows it means he’s in for a fair amount of shit next time he’s up at headquarters for a consult). But the majority of them are just friendly strangers to him, and predictably all curious and varying degrees of wary about this new man in Fernán’s life. They’ve clearly heard about him, from their pointed questions about his work, how he and Fernando met, his occasional collaborative efforts with the police; he tries not to feel interrogated and keeps an even keel and a pleasant smile as he answers all comers and works hard to remember everyone’s names. He feels nervous, but...not in an unpleasant way. There’s something sweet about being grilled by friends who just want to look out for Fernando in the only way they can. If they didn’t care about the little firebrand of a man currently holding court next to the tree and pontificating on the finer points of ornament arrangement, they wouldn’t be cornering Joe on the opposite side of the room for personal details.</p><p>“...from my cousin in Mexico City,” Fernando is saying as Emery the plastic surgeon from Beverly Hills, apparently satisfied Joe isn’t planning on murdering Fernán and stuffing his body in a dumpster, moves away with his impressively large glass of wine. In the twinkling white lights on the tree, the ornament in Fernando’s hand sparkles, a garishly neon-hued Madonna with a glitter halo; he holds it up, smiling fondly, before handing it to another person to hang up. “His wife repaints dolls and ornaments and all kinds of things in traditional designs and colors, and they have quite the little Instagram storefront now—I’ll text you the link later. Now <i>this</i> one…” He draws a...plastic spoon on a loop of ribbon from one of the ornament piles, making people around him laugh. “This is my nephew Lalo’s <i>very beautiful</i> Angelita, who keeps me safe from bears and earthquakes.” Coming nearer and squinting a little, Joe can see the shiny gold foil wings affixed to the handle; Fernán looks up, smiles at him and waves him over. “Here, my ridiculously tall paramour, put this way up high for me?”</p><p>Joe ducks his head a little, smiling; he obliges, taking the plastic spoon angel—complete with glossy curls of hair, a lacy dress, and googly eyes—and placing it prominently near the top, gazing serenely in two different directions out over Fernando’s living room. It’s so ugly it’s cute, and until this moment, Joe would not have imagined it would be something Fernando Morales would have anywhere in his home. He remembers making clothespin angels for his mother one year when he was very small, thinks of his sister cutting angel shapes out of old Christmas cards to make ornaments for her friends in high school. For years his mom loyally hung up all the dubiously festive results of school craft projects, glitter and Elmer’s glue and sequins sparkling next to heirloom glass on their towering Christmas trees, until at some point when Joe was in high school she decided to make the tree more of a decorative object, and kept their old kids’ stuff packed away in the basement.</p><p>But Fernando has a little story and a little memory for every single thing that goes on his tree. Gifts from family and friends, souvenirs of trips to New Mexico and Palm Springs, objects inherited and upcycled and even found, in the case of a massive beautiful seashell that he hangs himself, eyes distantly fond as he talks about an old boyfriend lost to AIDS early in his life. Joe watches him light up brighter than the lights on the tree (some feat, considering how many strings they strung on the thing) as he talks about his sprawling family, remembering Christmases in Montevideo, stuffing themselves with barbecue and watching the fireworks from the roof of their house, and for a moment Joe aches with a whole different kind of nostalgia, missing a place he’s never seen and people he’s never met, wishing he could see it all, too. Wishing he could see it with Fernán.</p><p>As the tallest person in the room by some measure, Joe also gets the honor of putting the star on top when every last ribbon has been wound around each bough just so. He still has to use the stepladder to reach it, Fernando’s hand steadying on his hip, warm even through his clothes. Feedback on position and orientation comes from half the people in the room as he adjusts the lovely wrought brass and silver confection, by far the prettiest thing there, in Joe’s estimation—though, to be fair, many of the baubles he found unattractive at first are beginning to grow on him even now. Finally, everyone agrees it’s straight (with many titters), and stands back to admire the handiwork of the last couple of hours and drink a final champagne toast to the season</p><p>“What do you think?” comes Fernán’s voice at Joe’s elbow as he’s lost in thought admiring the tree and its gleaming reflection in the living room window. Around them, people are starting to gather up their dishes to take back to the kitchen, a few moving to get their coats from the bedroom; Fernando looks gilded in the fairy light, and Joe can’t resist looping a long arm around his waist, drawing him closer. He isn’t tipsy anymore, but he still feels effervescent and warm, and he suddenly wishes very badly for an excuse of mistletoe to steal a kiss from Fernando.</p><p>Luckily, Fernán doesn’t stand on ceremony, rising on his toes to kiss him, first. “It’s beautiful,” Joe tells him when it breaks, sincerely impressed. He tucks a lick of loose hair back behind Fernando’s ear. “And that was the best Christmas party I’ve been to in years.”</p><p>“Why does that not surprise me somehow?” Fernando teases, leaning comfortably against him. “Considering more than half your friends are other psychiatrists. You must all end up psychoanalyzing each other and getting into arguments about how to interpret lucid dreams.”</p><p>“Only after a couple bowls of punch,” Joe returns drily, smirking. “Gets good when the university professors start rebutting each others’ most recent published papers over the charcuterie.”</p><p>Fernando looks at him in complete despair. “We desperately need to get you new friends, <i>flaquito.</i>”</p><p>“Think yours liked me okay?” Joe murmurs, bending closer.</p><p>Fernando hums, smiling conspiratorially. “Poll results are still coming in, but it’s looking like you might have convinced even some of the toughest sells. Joely hates all my boyfriends and she said you didn’t seem like an axe murderer. High praise, for her.”</p><p>“I’m honored.”</p><p>“As you should be,” Fernando says, with a triumphant grin that melts away the last of Joe’s anxieties about the evening.</p><p>When the last person has traded gifts with Fernán at the door and been waved down the driveway, he comes to find Joe in the kitchen, rinsing plates and glasses and putting them in the dishwasher, hugging him wordlessly from behind before starting to put away what’s left of the food. Together they quickly put the condo back to rights, Fernando setting out a few other decorations on his end tables and making fine adjustments to the nativity figures on the shelf in the corner.</p><p>As he’s returning some jackets to the front closet, vacated for guests’ use, Joe finds a tucked-shut cardboard box inside that hadn’t been there before. Frowning, he opens it to find yet more decorations, including, somehow, even more waxed fruit greenery. He laughs incredulously, affection welling up in him.</p><p>“Uh-oh,” he says in a carrying tone, bringing the box into the living room with a teasing smile. “I think we missed some, unbelievably.”</p><p>Fernando glances over, raises his eyebrows. “No, those are for you.”</p><p>Sobering, Joe blinks once, then says, “Me?”</p><p>“Tomorrow we’re going over to your place,” Fernando tells him, very distinctly, as he comes over and flops down on the couch next to him, “and we’re decorating it together, so you don’t have any excuse anymore.”</p><p>Joe looks down into the box again: greenery, lights, bows, another nativity scene, a set of very lovely antique electric candles… “You really don’t mind me borrowing these? You won’t miss them?”</p><p>“Joseph, I only have out about half my decorations, now. I rotate them in and out so my place doesn’t turn into Revenge of Bronner’s every year. Besides,” he says, smoothing out a nonexistent crease in his jeans, “I want you to use them. You should have some Christmas cheer, too.”</p><p>Joe watches him for a moment, long enough that Fernando glances up at him, looking fleetingly worried, a half-second of uncertainty that fills Joe with protective fondness.</p><p>“Will...you tell me about them?” he asks quietly, moving the box between them so that Fernando can reach into it, if he wants.</p><p>The moment of worry dissolves into another smile, easy and eager. “Well,” he says, picking up some of the be-fruited greenery. “These were my grandmother’s—my mom’s mom—and the thing she wanted me to have when I moved to America. There’s a whole set: these candle rings, a table centerpiece, and two—</p><p>“Wreaths,” Joe says, touching delicately at the little pears and grapes. They’re really not hideous, he muses, chiding himself for thinking they were before. They’re...old-fashioned. <i>Traditional,</i> he guesses. But he can see in Fernando’s eyes, hear in his voice, that they’re precious nonetheless, and that inclines him toward them more charitably. “The one hanging in the morgue…?”</p><p>“I just don’t have room for two wreaths,” Fernando says, almost apologetic. “So I always take it into work. Sort of...reminds me of what I’m doing. Who I’m doing it for. My grandmother was never very wealthy and never wanted to be, but she so loved beautiful things in her home. My great-grandfather bought these for her on a business trip to America in the 30s, so that she’d have something nice to decorate her first home with for Christmas. I used to love seeing them in her house every year, and eventually I got to be the one in charge of putting them out, so she sent them to me, after I’d finished med school and made it clear I wasn’t coming back to Uruguay. After she forgave me for that last part, of course.”</p><p>“Of course.” Joe takes the candle ring back from him and returns it gently to the box, just staring at it for a moment before he looks up at Fernando again. He has to swallow past the sudden tightness in his throat before he can continue. “Thank you, Fernando. I promise to take extra care of them. Of all of this.”</p><p>“You’re damn right you will,” Fernán says, unbothered. He smiles. “I’m helping you put it all out, and I will be visiting <i>frequently</i> throughout the season to make sure you’re treating them all well.”</p><p>Joe grins in reply, shifting the box to the floor so he can slide closer, drape his arm around Fernando’s shoulders and tuck him into his side. “Oh, is that right.”</p><p>“That’s right,” Fernán replies, squeezing Joe’s knee.</p><p>“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” Joe says. “And I <i>certainly</i> don’t want to disappoint your grandmother.”</p><p>Fernando shakes his head. “She’d love you,” he murmurs. “They all would, my whole family. Well. All the ones whose opinions I care about, anyway.”</p><p>“I would love to meet them,” Joe admits. “I feel like...I did, a little, tonight.”</p><p>Fernando takes a deep breath, lets it out, staring for a moment at the tree in all its kitschy glory, each branch heavy with memories. “Next year,” he says eventually, still not looking at Joe, his voice deliberately light, “how about the real thing?”</p><p>Joe’s heart skips. He rests his fingertips against Fernán’s jaw to gently tip his face back, to meet his eyes, to bend his head and kiss him very softly.</p><p>“I’d love that,” he whispers, and feels Fernando relax into him, smiling against his mouth.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>extra special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan">keycchan</a> and all my beloved friends in the discord server of dreams, for putting this little shindig together and for making this and every year an unmitigated delight.</p><p>have a wonderful, warm, safe holiday, all. love you.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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